Mirrors
by Tazzykid
Summary: Sherlock doesn't survive the fall. And everyone knows. Even John. But then, why does John keep seeing Sherlock everywhere he goes? (Won't be too long. Maybe a two-shot or three-shot)


Hey guys, I'm writing a story just to get back in the habit of writing. It will have multiple chapters, though they may be delayed with exams and such being next week. I hope you guys will enjoy it :)

Basically, this is where Sherlock did **NOT** survive the fall. Follow through the eyes of John, and see it's effects~

* * *

I couldn't believe it. The thought of Sherlock being dead was just as unbelievable as...

Well, Sherlock being dead.

I approached the casket, my body stiff. I truly didn't want to see what was inside. Where would his smile be? The one that he wore when he had already solved a case, or had a marvelous clue just come about. Not there, surely.

Yet, when I looked at the figure lying there, I was puzzled. Did they not tell me that he was dead? Why was he watching me then? His eyes were open, glancing around in different directions. He silently mouthed words to himself, most of which were inaudible to me, though I did hear my name once or twice. His small smirk happened to appear a few times, too. "Sherlock, what are you doing? I thought you were dead! Quit playing and get out of the casket." He didn't get up, only continued looking at his surroundings. "Sherlock!" I yelled, growing agitated. His childish games weren't welcome at this point.

I only then noticed that everyone else had grown quiet. They all stared at me with looks of confusion, whispering to each other as they did.

"He's only playing. He'll get up in a minute." Though I had said it, by the time I turned around to face him again his eyes were shut and his mouth close. No smirk was on his lips, but a flat line that seemed somewhat pale. His skin looked whiter than usual, and he was still. So very, very still.

A hand lightly grasped my shoulder, startling me. "John, I'm sorry, but he's dead. There's no way around it." I didn't try to recognize the voice.

There was no point.

It wasn't **his**.

I nodded my head and walked over to a seat, sitting down. My eyes were stuck on his chest. 'How is he keeping so still?' I wondered. I didn't believe that he was dead. It was impossible. He had just been saying my name and looking at me. He wasn't dead.

I continued the funeral in silence. Nobody talked to me. Nobody sat near me. I noticed the occasional glance shot towards me, and a few times I heard people whipser my name as they spoke to other people in a group. Some of them were reinacted my outburst from earlier.

And I realized then that not a single person, it seemed, believed me. They didn't believe that he was still alive.

Time passed by, and after several hours, it was finally time to bury Sherlock. As they loaded his casket, I was led to a car right behind the herse. Fitting, I suppose. After all, Sherlock was my best friend. And I his only.

"Best friend..." I mumbled to myself. The words felt like fire on my tongue. It hurt to say it. The viewing had sunk in, just as his body did into the ground, and I was left with this feeling of doubt. I had allowed my mind to register that Sherlock was dead.

Not alive. Not playing or acting out some ridiculous case.

But cold.

Still.

**Dead.**

I was alone again. Just like I had been after I left the gruesome battlefield. Before I had met him, and opened up a special place in my heart for someone other than a girl. He was the person I could see myself dying for. And I would have done it without regrets, if I had been given the chance. I still don't know why he did it. He didn't leave a note. Our phone call was his note, as he said. And while I enjoyed listening to his voice, I don't think it was enough.

It began again later that night. The voices; mumbling, whispering. My name. His name.

"Murder. Lies. The truth. They don't know it," they said to me. Over and over, to the point where even in the silence that filled the room, the voices were screaming in my head. Yelling that it was all a lie. That it was murder. That nobody but I knew the truth.

"Sherlock is dead!" I screamed, the voices silencing themselves.

Except one.

"John. I'm not dead, John. You know I'm not." I followed the voice.

It was his! And there he was! He wasn't dead! But what was he doing standing in the mirror on the wall?

* * *

Okay, I think I'm gonna leave it there. Mainly cause it's late. And the story won't be too long, but I'm not one for one-shots. At least, not this one.

See you all next time!~


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